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AND-OTHER-POEiMS 

ROBERT i! 

UI-IDERWOOD 
JOHNSON 



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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



THE WINTER HOUR AND OTHER POEMS 



THE WINTER HOUR 
AND OTHER POEMS 



BY y 

ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON 




Jt>S~'S'7X 



NEW YORK 

THE CENTURY CO. 
1892 



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Copyright, 1892, by 
Robert Underwood Johnson. 



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THE DE VINNE PRESS. 



TO 
RICHARD WATSON GILDER 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Invocation : To the Gorse i 

The Winter Hour 3 

With Interludes : 

Hearth-Song. 

The Lost Rose. 

A Madonna of Dagnan-Bouveret. 

Love in Italy. 

A Spring Prelude 28 

Before the Blossom 30 

Love in the Calendar 32 

A September Violet 34 

September's Eve 36 

October 38 

In November 39 

On Nearing Washington 41 

"As A Bell in a Chime" .42 

In the Dark 44 

Good Measure of Love 47 

Noblesse Oblige 49 

On a Candidate Accused of Youth ... 50 
Washington Hymn. (Sung at the laying of the corner- 
stone of the Washington Memorial Arch, New York, 

May 30, 1890.) 51 

vii 



vill CONTENTS 

PAGE 

To Ralph Waldo Emerson. (On the Death of Garfield.) 53 

Illusions 55 

To-morrow 56 

Inscription for a Burial Urn 57 

Quality 58 

Luck and Work 60 

On a Great Poet's Obscurity .... 61 

Written in Emerson's Poems 62 

Amiel. (The "Journal Intime.") .... 64 
"The Guest of the Evening." (Read at the dinner 
to Richard Watson Gilder, on his birthday, February 

8, 1884.) 65 

Salvini 66 

For Tears 67 

Apprehensions 68 

Browning at Asolo 69 

At Sea 71 

Moods of the Soul 72 

I. In Time of Victory. 
II. In Time of Defeat. 

To Leonora. (At her Debut, October 18, 1891.) . 75 

Herbert Mapes. (Drowned August 23, 1891.) . . 76 

A Wish for New France 77 

Divided Honors. (Written for the dinner to James 

Whitcomb Riley at Indianapolis, October 18, 1888.) . 78 

A Tracer for J*** B******** ^i 



THE WINTER HOUR AND OTHER POEMS 



INVOCATION: TO THE GORSE 



When the gorse is out of bloom, then love is out of season. "- 

English Proverb. 



Hardy gorse, that all year long 
Blooms upon the English moor, 
Let me set thee at the door 

Of this little book of song. 

When the dreary winter lowers, 
Vainly dost thou seek a fellow 
To thy blossom brave and yellow — 

Color of the cheeriest flowers. 

Thou of love perennial art 

Such a symbol that they say : 
" When no gorse-bloom greets the day, 
There 's no love in any heart." 



INVOCA TION 

Thus all days are Love's and thine. — 
Spicy flower on thorny branch, 
In Love's service thou art stanch — 

Wilt thou, wilding, enter mine ? 



THE WINTER HOUR 



THE WINTER HOUR 



Of all the hours of day or night 
Be mine the winter candle-light, 
When Day's usurpers of Love's throne — 
Fame, Pride, and tyrant Care— are flown, 
And hearts are letters of hid desire 
Yielding their secrets at the fire. 
Now beauty in a woman's face 
Glows with a sympathetic grace, 
And friend draws closer unto friend, 
Like travelers near a journey's end; 
In casual talk some common hope 
Finds fresher wing and farther scope ; 
The eye has language fit to speak 
Thoughts that by day 't were vain to seek 
Out of their silence ; and the hand 
Grasps with a comrade's sure demand. 
Pile high the winter's cheer and higher,— 
The world is saved, not lost, by fire! 



THE WINTER HOUR 



HEARTH- SONG 

When November's night comes down 
With a dark and sudden frown, 
Like belated traveler chill 
Hurrying o'er the tawny hill, — 

Higher, higher 
Heap the pine-cones in a pyre ! 
Where 's a warmer friend than fire ? 

Song 's but solace for a day ; 
Wine 's a traitor not to trust ; 
Love 's a kiss and then away ; 
Time 's a peddler deals in dust. 

Higher, higher 
Pile the driftwood in a pyre ! 
Where 's a firmer friend than fire ? 

Knowledge was but born to-night ; 
Wisdom 's to be born to-morrow ; 
One more log — and banish sorrow, 
One more branch — the world is bright. 

Higher, higher 
Crown with balsam-boughs the pyre ! 
Where 's an older friend than fire ? 



THE WINTER HOUR 



O SILENT hour that sacred is 

To our sincerest reveries ! — 

When peering Fancy fondly frames 

Swift visions in the oak-leaved flames; 

When Whim has magic to command 

Largess and lore from every land, 

And Memory, miser-like, once more 

Counts over all her hoarded store. 

Now phantom moments come again 

In a long and lingering train, 

As not content to be forgot — 

(O Death ! when I remember not 

Such moments, may my current run, 

Alph-like, to thy oblivion ! ) : 

The summer bedtime, when the sky^ 

The boy's first wonder — gathers nigh, 

And cows are lowing at the bars, 

And fireflies mock the early stars 

That seem to hang just out of reach — 

Like a bright thought that lacks of speech; 

The wistful twilight's tender fall, 

When to the trundle comes the call 



THE WINTER HOUR 

Of fluting robins, mingling sweet 
With voices down the village street; 
The drowsy silence, pierced with fear 
If evil-omened owl draw near. 
Quaking with presage of the night; 
The soft surrender when, from sight 
Hid like a goddess in a cloud, 
Comes furtive Sleep, with charm endowed 
To waft the willing child away- 
Far from the margin of the day, 
Till chanticleer with roystering blare 
Of reveille proclaims the glare. 
Remember? — how can one forget 
(Since Memory 's but Affection's debt) 
Those faery nights that hold the far, 
Soft rhythm of the low guitar, 
When not more sweetly zephyr blows 
And not more gently Afton flows 
Than the dear mother's voice, to ease 
The hurts of day with brook and breeze, 
To soothing chords that haunt the strings 
Like shadows of the song she sings ! 
And as the music's lullaby 
Locks down at last the sleepy eye, 



THE WINTER HOUR 

Green visions of a distant hill 

The fancy of the singer fill, 

While spreads Potomac's pausing stream, 

And moonHght sets her heart adream 

Of that old time when love was made 

With valentine and serenade. 

Now, too, come bedtimes when the stair 
Was never climbed alone. — Ah, where. 
Beyond the midnight and the dawn. 
Has now that other footstep gone? 
Does sound or echo more reveal 
When thirty winters may not steal 
That still-returning tread, — that voice, 
That made the timid child rejoice 
Against the terrors of the wind, — 
That tender tone that smoothed the mind? 
Great heart of pity ! it was then 
God seemed a father, denizen 
Of His own world, not chained to feet 
Of some far, awful judgment-seat. 
Then was revealed the reverent soul 
Whom creed nor doubt could from the 
goal 



THE WINTER HOUR 

Of goodness swerve; who need not bend 
To be of each just cause the friend. 
Of whose small purse and simple prayer 
The neediest had the largest share; 
Beloved of child, and poor, and slave. 
Nor yet more lovable than brave; 
Whom place could not allure, nor pelf, — 
To all men generous save himself; 
Whose passion Freedom was — with no 
Heat-lightning rage devoid of blow. 
But as a bridegroom might defend 
His chosen, to the furious end. 

Still other moments come apace, 
Each with fond, familiar face: 
The pleasures of an inland boy 
To whom great Nature was a toy 
For which all others were forsook — 
A spirit blithesome as a brook 
Whose song in ripples crystalline 
Doth flow soft silences between; 
The dormant soul's slow wakenings 
To dimly-apprehended things; 



THE WINTER HOUR 

The sudden vision in the night 
As by a conflagration's light; 
The daily miracle of breath ; 
The awe of battle and of death ; 
The tears of grief at Sumter's gun, 
The tears of joy when war was done, 
And all the fainting doubt that masked 
As hope when news of war was asked. 
And oh! that best-remembered place, 

That perfect moment's melting grace, 

The look, the smile, the touch, the kiss, 

The halo of self-sacrifice, — 

When Nature's passion, bounteous June, 

To Love's surrender added boon, 

As though the heir of every age 

Had come into his heritage. 

THE LOST ROSE 

There was a garden sweet and gay, 
Where rarest blossoms did delay 
The look that Fanny bent to find 
The flower fairest to her mind, 
Till, at her word, I plucked for her 
A rose of York-and-Lancaster. 



lo THE WINTER HOUR 

The red did with the white agree. 

Like passion blent in purity ; 

And as she blushed and blushed the more. 

Till she was like the bloom she bore, 

I said, " Dear heart, I too prefer 

The rose of York-and-Lancaster." 

'T is years ago and miles away ! 
For oh ! nor rose nor maid could stay 
To freshen other Junes. And yet 
How few who do not quite forget ! — 
Or know to which the words refer : 
" Sweet rose of York-and-Lancaster." 

In vain, when roses do appear 
Upon the bosom of the year, 
I search the tangle and the town 
Among the roses of renown, 
And still the answer is — "Oh, sir. 
We know no York-and-Lancaster." 

But ah, my heart, it knows the truth, 
And where was sown that seed of youth ; 
And though the world have lost the rose. 
There 's still one garden where it grows — 
Where every June it breathes of her. 
My rose of York-and-Lancaster. 



THE WINTER HOUR 



III 



Now call the Muses' aid to flout 

The bleak storm's roaring rage without; 

And bring it hail, or bring it snow, 

It shall be Love's delight to show 

What Fire and two defenders dare 

Against the legions of the air, 

Whose sharpest arrows shall not find 

Cleft in the armor of the mind. 

Why dread we Winter's deep distress, 

His pale and frigid loneliness. 

When here at hand are stored, in nooks. 

All climes, all company, in books ! 

A moving tale for every mood, 

Shakspere for all, — the fount and food 

Of gentle hving, — Fancy's Hnk 

'Twixt what we are and what we think, — 

Fellow to stars that nightly plod 

Old Space, yet kindred to the clod. 

Choose now from his world's wizard play 

What is frolicsome and gay; 

'T was for such evening he divined 

Not Juliet but Rosalind. 



12 THE WINTER HOUR 

Put the storied sorrow down, — 
Not to-night, with Jove-Hke frown, 
Shall the mighty Tuscan throw 
Fateful lightnings at his foe, 
Nor Hawthorne bend his graceful course 
To follow motive to its source. 
No, let gladness greet the ear : 
Cervantes' wit, or Chaucer's cheer, 
Or Lamb's rich cordial, pure and sweet, 
Where aromatic tinctures meet; 
Or princely Thackeray, whose pages 
Yield humor wiser than the sages ; 
Or, set in cherished place apart, 
Poets that keep the world in heart: 
Milton's massive lines that pour 
Like waves upon a windward shore; 
Wordsworth's refuge from the crowd — 
The peace of noon-day's poised cloud; 
That flaming torch a jealous line 
Passed on to Keats from Beauty's shrine 
Visions of Shelley's prophet-soul, 
That, seeing part, could sing the whole, 
Most like a lark that mounts so high 
He sees not earth but from the sky. 



THE WINTER HOUR 13 

And of the bards who in the grime 
And turmoil of our changing time 
Have kept the faith of men most pure 
The three whose harps shall last endure : 
Browning, Knight of Song, — so made 
By Nature's royal accolade, — 
Whose lines, as Hfe-blood full and warm, 
Search for the soul within the form, 
And in the treasures of whose lore 
Is Love, Love, ever at the core; 
Tennyson, of the silver string, 
Wisest of the true that sing. 
And truest singer of the wise; 
And he whose " stairway of surprise " 
Soars to an outlook whence appear 
All best things, fair, and sure, and near. 



IV 



Upon the wall some impress fine 
Of Angelo's majestic line — 
Seer or sibyl, dark with fate; 
Near, and all irradiate, 



14 THE WINTER HOUR 

Bellini's holy harmonies, 

Bringing the gazer to his knees; 

One group to hint from what a height 

Titian with color dowers the sight; 

A pageant of Carpaccio, 

Flushed with an autumn sunset-glow ; 

Then, of Luini's pensive race. 

The Columbine's alluring grace; 

And, echo of an age remote, 

Beato's pure and cloistered note. 

And be not absent from the rest 

Some later flame of beauty (blest 

As a new star), lest it be said 

That Art, that had its day, is dead. 

Let Millet speak in melting tone — 

Voicing the life that once was stone. 

Ere Toil had found another dawn 

Of Bethlehem at Barbizon. 

Nor is it winter while Dupre 

With daring sunHght leads the way 

Into the woodland rich and dim; 

Who love the forest, follow him; 

And they who lean the ear to reach 

The whispering breath of Nature's speech, 



THE WINTER HOUR 15 

May with Daubigny wait the night 
Beside a lake of lambent Hght 
And marged darkness — at the hour 
(Soul of the evening !) when the power 
Of man, that morn with empire shod, 
Is shattered by a thought of God ! 
And ah, one more : we will not wait 
For Death to let us call him great, 
But, taking counsel of the heart 
Stirred by his pure and perfect art, 
Among the masters make a place 
For Dagnan's fair Madonna's face. 



A MADONNA OF DAGNAN-BOUVERET 

Oh, brooding thought of dread ! 
Oh, calm of coming grief! 
Oh, mist of tears unshed 
Above that shining head 
That for an hour too brief 
Lies on thy nurturing knee ! 
How shall we pity thee, 
Mother of sorrows — sorrows yet to be! 



1 6 THE WINTER HOUR 

That babyhood unknown 
With all of bright or fair 
That lingers in our own 
By every hearth has shone. 
Each year that light we share 
As Bethlehem saw it shine. 
Be ours the comfort thine, 
Mother of consolations all divine ! 



Nor be the lesser arts forgot 
On which Life feeds and knows it not, 
That everywhere from roof to portal 
Beauty may speak of the immortal: 
Forms that the fancy over-fill; 
Colors that give the sense a thrill; 
Soft lights that fall through opal glass 
On mellow stuffs and sturdy brass; 
Corners of secrecy that invite 
Comfort, the handmaid of Delight; 
The very breath of sculptures old 
Held poised within a perfect mold; 



THE WINTER HOUR 17 

A dainty vase of Venice make, 

Fashioned for its one rose's sake 

Ay, winter's miracle of flowers 

To cheat the mood and mask the hours: 

Love's velvet-petaled pledge of June, 

That, on the wings of Passion strewn, 

Made courtly Persia conqueror 

Of thrice the world she lost in war; — 

Jonquils, that Tuscan sunshine hold 

Within their happy hearts of gold; — 

Narcissus, such as still are found 

By Marathon's mountain-envied mound — 

Food of the soul, well bought with bread. 

As sage Hippocrates hath said. 

All these perchance shall faintly yield 

Odors from some Sicilian field 

Where young Theocritus deep-strayed 

In blooms celestial — where his shade. 

Haunting his storied Syracuse, 

Finds balm for his neglected Muse. 

Add wanton smilax to entwine 

Your Dancing Faun or God of Wine, 

And you shall summon in a band 

The joys of every summer land. 



1 8 THE WINTER HOUR 



VI 



But there 's a vision stirs the heart 

Deeper than books or flowers or art, — 

When Music, mistress of the mind, 

Lender not borrower from the Wind, 

Rival of Water and of Light, 

Adds her enchantment to the Night. 

What thoughts ! what dreams ! what ecstasies 

When heart and fingers touch the keys! 

Across what gulf of fate Love springs 

To Love, if Love caress the strings 1 

By this mysterious amulet 

One shall remember or forget ; 

When words and smiles and tears shall fail, 

The might of Music shall prevail; 

Shall move alike the wise and weak; 

All dialects aHke shall speak; 

Outglow the rainbow to the doomed, — 

Consuming all, be unconsumed ; 

Shall save a nation in its throes, 

Luring with concord grappling foes; 

Shall madden thus, yet shall be glad 

(Oh, paradox !) to soothe the mad. 



THE WINTER HOUR 19 

This rhythmic language made to reach 
Beyond the reticence of speech — 
Bland as the breeze of May it sighs, 
Or rolls reverberant till the skies 
Tremble with majesty! Not the mote 
Most hid of all creation's rote 
But holds some message that shall be 
Transmuted into harmony. 
Already, since the Hsping-time 
When music was but chant or chime, 
What spirits have to man been lent 
From God's discordless firmament! — 
Beethoven, brother of the Nine, 
But with a birthright more divine, — 
Whose harmonies that heavenward wend 
Wings to the laden spirit lend 
Until, serenely mounting higher, 
It melts into the starry choir; 
Wagner, in whom the Passions meet 
To throw themselves at Music's feet, — 
Whose murmurings have charm to wring 
From Love the secret of the Spring, — 
And in whose clamor sounds the siege 
Of heaven when Lucifer was liege. 



THE WINTER HOUR 

Handel, whose aspirations seem 

Like steps of gold in Jacob's dream; 

Mozart, simplest of the great, 

Heir of Melody's estate, 

Who did blithe pipes of Pan prolong 

And heighten to a seraph song. 

Schumann, rare poet, with a lyre 

Stringed in Imagination's fire; 

And oh, that one of human strain! — 

Chopin, beloved child of pain. 

To whom the whole of Love was known- 

Marvel, and mystery, and moan. 

The joy secure, the jealous dart 

Deep-ambushed in the doubting heart, 

And all the perilous delight 

That waits on doubt, as dawn on night. 

Ah, who shall wake the charm that lies 
Past what is written for the eyes 
In such a scroll? The poet's need 
Is that a poet's heart should read. 
Happy the winter hour and fleet 
When flame and waiting passion meet 



THE WINTER HOUR 

In her pure fire whose chords betray 
The St. Ceciha of our day ! 
Oh, velvet of that Saxon hand 
So lately iron to command! — 
Like, at the shower's sudden stop, 
The softness of the clinging drop. 
What tender notes the trance prolong 
Of that famed rhythmic cradle-song I 
How faery is her woven spell 
Of minuet or tarantelle! 
Who would return to earth when she 
Transports us with a rhapsody! 
And when in some symphonic burst 
Of joy her spirit is immersed, 
That path celestial fain to share, 
We vow to breathe but noble air! 



VII 

Warmed with melody like wine, 
Lighted by the friendly shine 
Of the rich-replenished hearth, 
Let us drink of wine and mirth 



22 THE WINTER HOUR 

While waning evening's aftermath 

Grows pleasant as a winding path 

With wit's surprises and the tale 

Adventurous, spreading sudden sail 

For Arcady and hallowed haunts 

Along the shores of old Romance: 

Now shall fare the fancy forth 

To pillared grottoes of the north, 

Where circling waters come again 

Like thoughts within a sleepless brain; 

Or, coursing down a softer coast 

Whose beauty is the Old World's boast, 

Shall pause for words while memory's flame 

Kindles at Taormina's name. 

And now in shifting talk appears 
Pomp of cities clad with years: 
Gay or gloomy with her skies, 
Gray Paris like an opal lies 
Sparkling on the front of France. 
Avignon doth hold a lance 
In a tourney-list with Nimes. 
Fair Seville basks in helpless dream 



THE WINTER HOUR 23 

Of conquest, as in caged air 

Dreams the tamed lion of his lair. 

Regal Genoa still adorns 

Her ancient throne; and Pisa mourns. 

Now we traverse holy ground 

Where three miracles are found: 

One of beauty — when with dyes 

Of her own sunset Venice vies. 

One of beauty and of power — 

Rome, the crumbled Babel-tower 

Of centuries piled on centuries — 

Scant refuge from Oblivion's seas 

That swept about her. And the third? — 

O heart, fly homeward like a bird. 

And look, from Bellosguardo's goal. 

Upon a city with a soul ! 

Who that has chmbed that heavenly 

height 
When all the west was gold with light, 
And nightingales adovvn the slope 
To listening Love were lending hope. 
Till they by vesper bells were drowned. 
As though by censers filled with sound — 



24 THE WINTER HOUR 

Who — who would wish a worthier end 
To every journey? or not blend 
With those who reverently count 
This their Transfiguration Mount? 



LOVE IN ITALY 

They halted at the terrace wall ; 

Below, the towered city lay ; 
The valley in the moonlight's thrall 

Was silent in a swoon of May. 
As hand to hand spoke one soft word 

Beneath the friendly ilex-tree, 
They knew not, of the flame that stirred, 

What part was Love, what Italy, 

They knew what makes the moon more bright 

Where Beatrice and Juliet are, — 
The sweeter perfume in the night. 

The lovelier starhght in the star ; 
And more that glowing hour did prove. 

Beneath the sheltering ilex-tree, — 
That Italy transfigures Love, 

As Love transfigures Italy. 



THE WINTER HOUR 



VIII 

And thou, who art my winter hour — 
Book, picture, music, friend, and flower — 
If on such evening, dear, I trace 
Paths far from Love's divine embrace, 
Wandering till long absence grows 
Into brief death — less death's repose — 
Let me be missed with love and cheer, 
As miss we those of yesteryear 
With whom we thought (beguiling hope!) 
To stray together down Life's slope. 
While Age came on like gentle rain. 
They who but ceased their joyous strain - 
Where may the limit to the sea 
Of their bereaving silence be? 
Yet sorrow not : we may prolong, 
If not the singer's voice, the song. 
And if beyond the glorious strife 
Of this good world, I tread new hfe, 
Reluctant, but, by Heaven's aid. 
With infant instinct unafraid, 



2 6 THE WINTER HOUR 

May Memory plead with thee to save 
Out of my song its happier stave. 
From the Dark Isthmus let not gloom 
Deepen the shadows of thy room. 
For me no ban of smile or jest: 
Life at its full is holiest. 
Let all thy days have pure employ 
In the high sanity of joy; 
Be then, as now, the friend of all. 
Thy heart a thronged confessional, 
A fount of sympathy, a store 
Of jewels at an open door. 

Here do I falter, love, for fear 

Of sacrilege to what is dear. 

Not now — not here; some luminous time, 

Some perfect place, some fortunate rhyme 

May yield that sacrificial part 

That poets fitly give to Art. 

Ever the moment most elate 

Must for a speech sufficient wait; 

Only the happiest know, alas! 

How soundless is the brimming glass. 



THE WINTER HOUR 27 

But, though Love need not praise nor oath, 

And silence oft is firmer troth, 

Yet know that if I come no more, 

'Tis fault of sail, or sea, or shore. 

Not of the pilot, — for the heart 

Sees its way homeward from the start. 

If Death have bond that Love can break, 

It shall be broken for thy sake. 

If spirits unto mortals teach 

Some rudiment of subtler speech, 

My presence shall about thee stay 

To prompt the word it cannot say. 

So when, with late farewell and slow, 
The guests into the night shall go, 
Each pulse by sympathy more warm, 
Forgetting the forgotten storm. 
And thou alone into the blaze, 
Thrilled with the best of life, shalt gaze 
With hunger for the life divine. 
Oh, be that blessed moment mine! — 
With thee, who art my winter hour. 
Book, picture, music, friend, and flower. 



28 A SPRING PRELUDE 



A SPRING PRELUDE 

O TARDY April, is thy full choir here ? 
The redbreast, picket of the swarming spring, 
Whistles a sudden chirrup of alarm 
Before his level flight ; and soft at eve 
His melody, on grass half-robin high. 
Falls like a vesper's throbbings from aloft. 
The sparrow tempts the turf to faster growth 
With her coy nesting, while her happy mate, 
High in the promise-reddened maple-top, 
O'er-bubbles with ecstasies of hoarded song. 
The mellow tunings of the oriole's flute. 
Rich as his coat, foretell his summer joy 
And pitch the key of gladness for the year. 
Here is the bluebird, best of mates and sires. 
And pewee, restless as a lover's fear, 
With cousin phoebe, bleating tearfully. 
The bumblebee, that, nectar-drunk, shall soon 
Linger within the sybaritic flower. 



A SPRING PRELUDE 29 

Feeds his impatience at the cautious bud ; 
And from the furrows' wet and windy reach, 
Where March but lately swung his icy scythe, 
Ripples the velvet air about the cheek, 
Laden with faintest chorusings, as though 
The brimming silence overflowed in sound. 

O tardy April, is the full choir here ? 

Alas for me ! thou hast forgot to bring 

Out of the South one childish, bird-like voice. 

Whose absence doth delay the year, and makes 

My songs and thine but preludes till she comes. 



30 BEFORE THE BLOSSOM 



BEFORE THE BLOSSOM 

In the tassel-time of spring 
Love 's the only song to sing; 

Ere the ranks of solid shade 
Hide the bluebird's flitting wing, 

While in open forest glade 
No mysterious sound or thing 

Haunt of green has found or made, 
Love 's the only song to sing. 

Though in May each bush be dressed 
Like a bride, and every nest 

Learn Love's joyous repetend. 
Yet the half-told tale is best 

At the budding, — with its end 
Much too secret to be guessed. 

And its fancies that attend 
April's passion unexpressed. 



BEFORE THE BLOSSOM 31 \ 

Love and Nature communing | 

Gave us Arcady. Still ring — i 

Vales across and groves among — • 
Wistful memories, echoing 

Pan's far-off and fluty song. I 

Poet ! nothing harsher sing ; \ 

Be, like Love and Nature, young ; 
In the tassel-time of spring. 



32 LOVE IN THE CALENDAR 



LOVE IN THE CALENDAR 

When chinks in April's windy dome 

Let through a day of June, 
And foot and thought inchne to roam, 

And every sound 's a tune; 
When Nature fills a fuller cup. 

And hides with green the gray, — 
Then, lover, pluck your courage up 

To try your fate in May. 

Though proud she was as sunset clad 

In Autumn's fruity shades, 
Love too is proud, and brings (gay ladl^ 

Humility to maids. 
Scorn not from nature's mood to learn. 

Take counsel of the day: 
Since haughty skies to tender turn, 

Go try your fate in May. 



LOVE IN THE CALENDAR ^t, \ 

Though cold she seemed as pearly light ' 

Adown December eves, • 

\ 
And stern as night when March winds smite \ 

The beech's lingering leaves; 

Yet Love hath seasons like the year, ; 

And grave will turn to gay, — j 

Then, lover, harken not to fear, \ 

But try your fate in May. | 

And you whose art it is to hide : 

The constant love you feel: j 

Beware, lest overmuch of pride ! 

Your happiness shall steal. ' 

No longer pout, for May is here, : 

And hearts will have their way; ■ 

Love 's in the calendar, my dear, ; 

So yield to fate in May. , 



34 A SEPTEMBER VIOLET 



A SEPTEMBER VIOLET 

For days the peaks wore hoods of cloud, 

The slopes were veiled in chilly rain; 
We said: It is the Summer's shroud, 
And with the brooks we moaned aloud, — 
Will sunshine never come again ? 

At last the west wind brought us one 
Serene, warm, cloudless, crystal day. 
As though September, having blown 
A blast of tempest, now had thrown 
A gauntlet to the favored May. 

Backward to Spring our fancies flew, 
And, careless of the course of Time, 

The bloomy days began anew. 

Then, as a happy dream comes true. 
Or as a poet finds his rhyme, — 



J SEPTEMBER VIOLET 35 

Half wondered at, half unbelieved, 

I found thee, friendliest of the flowers! 
Then Summer's joys came back, green-leaved. 
And its doomed dead, awhile reprieved. 
First learned how truly they were ours. 

Dear violet! Did the Autumn bring 
Thee vernal dreams, till thou, like me, 

Didst cHmb to thy imagining ? 

Or was it that the thoughtful Spring 
J)id come again, in search of thee ? 



36 SEPTEMBER'S EVE 



SEPTEMBER'S EVE 



'T IS Nature's temple, and the day 
Is full of worship as of light. 
A sigh from now and 't will be night ; 
The lordly vision will not stay. 
With dusky incense throbs the gray 
Half dome of sky. A cloistered note 
Of lingering bird-song sounds remote 
As the last echo of a hymn 
Sung in recessional, cold and dim. 
I worship, but as though the praise 
Must pass through Nature's priestly ways, 
For God doth seem as lone and far 
As yonder uncompanioned star, 
September's Eve. 



SEPTEMBER'S EVE 37 



Along the mountain's altar crest \ 

The russet deepens in the West, { 

As when to richer chords the close j 

Of noble music softly flows. • 

Now speed my footsteps through the dark, ' 

I see my leaping hearth, and 'hark! ; 

Th' expectant children's view-halloo : 
Rings out a melody of cheer. 

The rushing feet approach; I hear i 
The lavish welcome panting through. 

How bright the sudden stars appear i 

In friendly groups ! Now God is near, \ 
For Love is in ker temple, too, " j 

September's Eve. 1 



38 OCTOBER 



OCTOBER 

Soft days whose silver moments keep 
The constant promise of the mom, 
When tired equinoctials sleep, 
And wintry winds are yet unborn: 
What one of all the twelve more dear — 
Thou truce and Sabbath of the year ? 

More restful art thou than the May, 
And if less hope be in thy hand. 
Some cares 't were grief to understand 
Thou hid'st, as is the mother's way, 
With mists and Hghts of fairy-land 
Set on the borders of the day. 

And best of all thou dost beguile 
With color, — friendliest thought of God! 
Than thine hath heaven itself a smile 
More rich ? Are feet of angels shod 
With peace more fair ? O month divine ! 
Stay, till thy tranquil soul be mine. 



IN NOVEMBER 39 



IN NOVEMBER 

Here is the watershed of all the year, 
Where, by a thought's space, thoughts do start anear 
That fare most widely forth : some to the mouth 
Of Arctic rivers, some to the mellow South. 

The gaunt and wrinkled orchard shivers 'neath 
The blast, like Lear upon the EngHsh heath, 
And mossy boughs blow wild that, undistressed. 
Another spring shall hide the cheerful nest. 

All things are nearer from this chilly crown, — 
The solitude, the white and huddling town; 
And next the russet fields, of harvest shorn, 
Shines the new wheat that freshens all the morn. 

From out the bursting milkweed, dry and gray, 
The silken argosies are launched away. 
To mount the gust, or drift from hill to hill 
And plant new colonies by road and rill. 



40 IN NOVEMBER 

Ah, wife of mine, whose clinging hand I hold. 
Shrink you before the New, or at the Old? 
And those far eyes that hold the silence fast — 
Look they upon the Future, or the Past? 



ON NEARING WASHINGTON 41 



ON NEARING WASHINGTON 

City of homes and in my heart my home ! 
(Though other streets exact a grudging fee) : 
How leap my pulses when afar I see 
The dawn creep whitening down thy solemn dome! 

For now my care-restricted steps may roam 
Thy urban groves — a forest soon to be — 
Where, like thy shining river, placid, free, 
Contentment dwells and beckons me to come. 

Ah, city dear to lovers! — that dost keep 

For their delight what Mays and what Novem- 
bers ! — 
Kindling the flame, and if it ever sleep, 
New-Hghting it within the breathing embers; 
Dear even in their sorrow! for when they weep 
'T is for rare joys, scarce known till Love remem- 
bers. 



42 ''AS A BELL IN A CHIME' 



"AS A BELL IN A CHIME" 

As a bell in a chime 

Sets its twin-note a-ringing, 

As one poet's rhyme 

Wakes another to singing, 

So, once she has smiled, 

All your thoughts are beguiled 
And flowers and song from your childhood are bringing. 

Though moving through sorrow 
As the star through the night, 

She needs not to borrow. 
She lavishes, hght. 

The path of yon star 

Seemeth dark but afar : 
Like hers it is sure, and like hers it is bright. 



"AS A BELL IN A CHIME'' 

Each grace is a jewel 
Would ransom the town, 

Her speech has no cruel, 
Her praise is renown; 

'T is in her as though Beauty, 

Resigning to Duty 
The scepter, had still kept the purple and crown. 



43 



44 IN THE DARK 



IN THE DARK 

At dusk, when Slumber's gentle wand 
Beckons to quiet fields my boy, 

And day, whose welcome was so fond, 
Is slighted like a rivaled toy, — 

When fain to follow, fain to stay, 

Toward night's dim border-line he peers, 

We say he fears the fading day : 
Is it the inner dark he fears? 

His deep eyes, made for wonder, keep 
Their gaze upon some land unknown, 

The while the crowding questions leap 
That show his ignorance my own. 

For he would go he knows not where, 
And I — I hardly know the more; 

Yet what is dark and what is fair 
He would to-night with me explore. 



IN THE DARK 45 

Upon the shoals of my poor creed 
His plummet falls, but cannot rest; 

To sound the soundless is his need, 
To find the primal soul his quest. 

In vain these bird-like flutterings. 

As when through cages sighs the wind: 

My clearest answer only brings 

New depths of mystery to his mind,— 

Vague thoughts, by crude surmise beset. 
And groping doubts that loom and pass 

Like April clouds that, shifting, fret 

With rides of shade the sun-wooed grass. 

O lonely soul within the crowd 
Of souls ! O language-seeking cry ! 

How black were noon without a cloud 
To vision only of the eye ! 

Sleep, child! while healing Nature breaks 
Her ointment on the wounds of Thought; 

Joy, that anew with morning wakes. 

Shall bring you sight it ne'er has brought. 



46 IN THE DARK 

Lord, if there be, as wise men spake. 
No Death, but only Fear of Death, 

And when Thy temple seems to shake 
'T is but the shaking of our breath, — 

Whether by day or night we see 

Clouds where Thy winds have driven none, 

Let unto us as unto Thee 
The darkness and the light be one. 



GOOD MEASURE OF LOVE 47 



GOOD MEASURE OF LOVE 

One twilight was there when it seemed 
New stars beneath young eyehds gleamed 

In vain the warning clock would creep 
Anear the hour of beauty-sleep. 

In vain the trundle yearned to hold 
Far-Eyes and Httle Heart-of-Gold ; 

And love that kisses are the stuff of 
At last for once there was enough of, 

As though of all Affection's round 

The fond climacteric had been found — 

Each childish fancy heaping more, 
Like spendthrift from a miser-store, 



48 GOOD MEASURE OF LOVE 

lill stopped by hug and stayed by kiss — 
The sweet contention ran like this: 

" How much do I love you ? " (I remember but part 
Of the words of the troth of this lover) 

"I love you" — he said — "why — I love you — a heart 
Brimful and running over. 

'• I love you a hundred!" said he, with a squeeze. 

" A thousand ! " said she, as she nestled ; 
" A milHon ! " he cried in triumphant ease 
While she with the numbers wrestled. 

"Aha! I have found it!" she shouted, "aha!" 
(The red to the soft cheeks mounting) 

"I love you — I love you — I love you. Papa, 
Over the last of the counting ! " 



NOBLESSE OBLIGE 49 



NOBLESSE OBLIGE 

What is diviner than the peace of foes! 

He conquers not who does not conquer hate, 
Or thinks the shining wheels of heaven wait 
On his forgiving. Dimmer the laurel shows 

On brows that darken; and war-won repose 
Is but a truce when heroes abdicate 
To Huns — unfabling those of elder date 
Whose every corse a fiercer warrior rose. 

O ye that saved the land! Ah yes, and ye 

That mourned its saving! Neither need forget 
The price our destiny did of both demand — 

Toil, want, wounds, prison, and the lonely sea 
Of tears at home. Oh, look on these. And yet- 
Before the human fail you — quick! your hand! 



50 ON A CANDIDATE ACCUSED OF YOUTH 



ON A CANDIDATE ACCUSED OF YOUTH 

" Too young " do they call him ? Who say it ? Not they 
Who have felt his hard stroke in the civic affray, 
When elders, whom veteran fighters had taught 
Till they knew all the rules by which battles are fought, 
Fumbled weakly with weapons his foresight had sought. 

Who thinks of his youthfulness ? Surely not they 
Who stood at his side through the wavering day. 
And knew the quick vision, the planning exact 
Of parry and thrust, till the stout helmet cracked 
'Neath the bold and true blow that is better than tact. 

Yea, the strength of the arm is the strength of its use, 
Not its years; and when fighting is on, better choose 
Not the rust-eaten sword from the library wall, 
But the new blade that leaps in its sheath at the call. 
Ask the foe by which weapon he fears most to fall! 



WASHINGTON HYMN Si 



WASHINGTON HYMN 

SUNG AT THE LAYING OF THE CORNER-STONE OF THE 

WASHINGTON MEMORIAL ARCH, NEW YORK, MAY 

30, 1890, TO THE AIR OF THE AUSTRIAN 

HYMN BY HAYDN 

Praise to Thee, O God of Freedom, 

Praise to Thee, O God of Law, 
Thee the goal of Israel's dreaming, 

Thee the flame that Moses saw; 
Light of every patriot dungeon, 

Home of exile, hope of slave. 
Loved by just and feared by tyrant. 

Comrade of the true and brave. 

Would we pray for new defenders. 
Thou art with us ere we call; 

Thou wilt find new ranks of heroes 
For the heroes yet to fall. 



WASHINGTON HYMN 

Back we look across the ages, 
Forward Thou beyond the sun, 

Yet no greater gift we ask Thee 
Than another Washington. 



TO RALPH WALDO EMERSON 53 



TO RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

ON THE DEATH OF GARFIELD, SEPTEMBER, i, 

Poet of every soul that grieves 
O'er death untimely: whose lament 

Lights up the farthest Dark, and leaves 
A bow across the heavens bent: 

Dead in an upper room doth lie 

A nation's hero; can it be 
Thy ear too faintly hears the cry 

The West wind utters to the sea ? 

Thy Concord paean may have caught 
Glow from an elder Garfield's name: 

What fitter aureole could be sought 
For such a son than such a flame' 



54 TO RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

Bard of the Human: since we yearn 
For that one manly heart in vain, 

Forgive the reverent eyes that turn 

Toward the low stream in Concord plain. 

Warned by the favoring touch of Death, 
Thy Nunc Dmiittis thou hast sung; 

No more the thunder's stormy breath 

Shall sweep the lyre with lightnings strung. 

And yet, for him, remains — unsigned. 
Unspoken — all thy noble praise. 

When (port more worth the cruise !) thou find 
His sail beyond the final haze; 

But us? O Seer, to whose gift 

Looms large the Future's better part, 

What other prophet voice shall lift 
This burden from the people's heart! 



ILLUSIONS 55 



ILLUSIONS 



Go stand at night upon an ocean craft, j 

And watch the folds of its imperial train ' 

Catching in fleecy foam a thousand glows — ■ 

A miracle of fire unquenched by sea. j 

There in bewildering turbulence of change \ 

Whirls the whole firmament, till as you gaze, i 

All else unseen, it is as heaven itself j 

Had lost its poise, and each unanchored star ] 

In phantom haste flees to the horizon Hne. \ 



What dupes we are of the deceiving eye! < 

How many a light men wonderingly acclaim | 

Is but the phosphor of the path Life makes j 

With its own motion, while above, forgot, j 

Sweep on serene the old unenvious stars ! \ 



56 TO-MORROW 



TO-MORROW 

One walks secure in wisdom-trodden ways 
That lead to peaceful nights through happy dayS' 
Health, fame, friends, children, and a gentle wife, 
All Youth can covet or Experience praise, 
And Use withal to crown the ease of hfe. 

Ah, thirsting for another day, 
How dread the fear 

If he but knew the danger near! 

Another, with some old inheritance 
Of Fate, unmitigated yet by Chance, — 
Condemned by those he loves, with no appeal 
To his own fearful heart, that ever pants 
For newer circlings of the cruel Wheel ! 

Ah, thirsting for another day, 
What need of fear 

If he but knew the help that 's near? 



INSCRIPTION FOR A BURIAL URN 57 



INSCRIPTION FOR A BURIAL URN 

Fire is older than Earth, 

Swaddled her at her birth, 

Shall be her windy shroud. 

Fear whispers, Earth with fire endowed 

Is all of Life : but the Soul's Desire 

Is something other than earth and fire, 

And cannot mold or burn. 

Of this is Honor made, and Truth, 

And Love that shall out-light the star. 

Go find when these began their youth. 

Then guess their age's farthest bar ; 

But look not for it in grave or urn. 



58 QUALITY 



QUALITY 



Take, ere the bee hath sipped, 

The courtly, maiden-Hpped, 

And dewy oleander, 

And breathe, and dream, and wander. 

But ah! take not another, 

Lest fragrance fragrance smother. 



II 

What all your wreathed wine 
To what I taste of mine ? 
See the spilled jewels run. 
Red as an autumn sun! — 
Each holding warm and clear 
The vintage of a year. 



QUALITY 59 



III 



Stranger, thy passing word 
My waiting heart hath stirred; 
My Hfe to thee I lend! 
This hour thou art my friend, 
And could not dearer be 
Loved an eternity. 



6o LUCK AND WORK 



LUCK AND WORK 

While one will search the season over 
To find the magic four-leaved clover, 
Another, with not half the trouble. 
Will plant a crop to bear him double. 



ON A GREAT POET'S OBSCURITY 6i 



ON A GREAT POET'S OBSCURITY 

What means his line? You say none knows? 

Yet one perhaps may learn — in time: 
For, sure, could Life be told in prose 

There were no need at all for rhyme. 

iVlike two waters blunt the sight — 
The muddy shallow and the sea; 

Here every current leads aright 
To deeps where lucent wonders be. 



62 WRITTEN IN EMERSON'S POEMS 

WRITTEN IN EMERSON'S POEMS 

(for a child) 

Midnight or morning, eve or noon, 
Torn March or clover-scented June, — 

Whene'er you stand before this gate, 
'T will open — if but not too soon 

You knock, if only not too late. 

Well shall it be if, boyhood gone, 
A boy's delight you still may own 

To play the dawn-new game of life,— 
If what is dreamed and what is known 

In your still-startled heart have strife. 

Ere you have banished Mystery, 
Or throned Distrust, or less shall be 

Stirred by the deep and fervent hne 
Which is the poet's sign and fee: 

Be this your joy that now is mine. 



WRITTEN IN EMERSON'S POEMS 63 

When comes the hour, be full and bright 
Your lamp, as the wiser virgins' hght! 

Choose some familiar, shrine-like nook, 
And offer up in prayer the night 

Upon the altar of this book. 

Always new earth, new heavens lie 
The apocalyptic spirit nigh : 

If such be yours, oh, while you can. 
Bid unregretted Youth good-bye, 

For morning shall proclaim you Man. 



64 AMIEL 

AMIEL 

(the "journal intime") 

A FEW there are who to the troubled soul 
Can lay the ear with that physician-art 
Which by a whispered accent in the heart 
Follows the lurking treason that hath stole 

Into the citadel; — a few whose scroll 
Of warning bears our safety, — is a chart 
Of our unsounded seas, and doth impart 
Courage to hold the spirit to its goal. 

Of such is Amiel, lonely as a saint, — 

Or as an eagle dwelHng on peaks, in shade 
Of clouds, which now he cleaves for one wide look 

At the green earth, now for a circle faint 

Nearer the sun. Once more has Truth betrayed 
Secrets to Sorrow not in the sibyl's book. 



THE GUEST OF THE EVENING'' 65 



"THE GUEST OF THE EVENING" 

(read at the dinner to RICHARD WATSON GILDER, 
ON HIS BIRTHDAY FEBRUARY 8, 1 884) 

Good actions are a fruit so ripe and rare 
They bear not fingering. Let me then beware 
To touch with venturous hand this curving branch, 
Nor lean too heedlessly against the tree 
Thus, at its prime, o'erladen heavily 
With golden harvest full and sweet and stanch, — 
Lest I by some rude shock, at this light hour. 
Bring down the Virtues in a mellow shower. 

To drop the figure, friends, — let 's be content 

The guest shall fancy less than we have meant; 

Speak not too closely of his special good. 

That we are here tells more than trumpets could. 

Our friendship holds his virtues as the light 

Holds the hid rainbow — storm but makes them bright; 

The modest veil they wear I may not raise 

Lest he should blush to hear, and I to praise. 



66 SALVINl 



SALVINI 



Dead is old Greece," they mourned ere yet arose 
This Greek — this oak of old Achaian graft 
Seed-sown where westward tempests wept and 
laughed, 

As now when some great gust of heaven blows 

From lair levantine. How the giant grows! — 
Not to lone ruin of a withered shaft, 
But quaffing Hfe in every leafy draught, — 

Fathered by Storm and mothered by Repose. 

Nay, doubt the Greeks are gone till, this green 
crest 
In splendor fallen, round the wrack shall be 
Prolonged, like memories of a noble guest. 

The phantom glory of the actor's day. 
Then, musing on Olympus, men shall say 
The myth of Jove took rise from lesser majesty. 



FOR TEARii 67 



FOR TEARS 



Some birches from the winter snow unbend, 
And some He prone the happy summer long: 

Is grief but weakness ? May it be, bhthe friend, 
The heavier burden stays but on the strong ? 



68 * APPREHENSIONS 



APPREHENSIONS 

Seven days we sought the horizon line, elate, 
Without a sea-born doubt of things to come; 
Then on the eighth, upon the sill of home, 

A fog, not of the sea, fell with a weight 

Upon our spirits. Where was noon's rich freight 
Of summer cheer, the darkness spoke of doom, 
Till thoughts familiar did such dole assume 

We could but cling before the coming fate. 

In port — what greeting? From beloved lips 
The same "All 's well!" that could not charm 

our woe 
Chanted an ocean litany against harm; 

Our happiness swung forth from fear's eclipse. 
Alas ! upon a fearless friend the blow 
Fell like first lightning from long-gathered storm. 



BROWNING AT A SOLO 69 

BROWNING AT ASOLO 

(inscribed to his friend MRS. ARTHUR BRONSON) 

This is the loggia Browning loved, 

High on the flank of the friendly town; 

These are the hills that his keen eye roved, 
The green like a cataract leaping down 
To the plain that his pen gave new renown. 

There to the West what a range of blue ! — 
The very background Titian drew 

To his peerless Loves. O tranquil scene ! 
Who than thy poet fondlier knew 

The peaks and the shore and the lore between ? 

See! yonder 's his Venice — the vaHant Spire, 

Highest one of the perfect three. 
Guarding the others : the Palace choir, 
The Temple flashing with opal fire — 

Bubble and foam of the sunlit sea. 



70 BROWNING AT A SOLO 

Yesterday he was part of it all — 

Sat here, discerning cloud from snow 
In the flush of the Alpine afterglow, 
Or mused on the vineyard whose wine-stirred row 

Meets in a leafy bacchanal. 

Listen a moment — how oft did he! — 

To the bells from Fontalto's distant tower 

Leading the evening in . . . ah, me ! 

Here breathes the whole soul of Italy 

As one rose breathes with the breath of the bower. 

Sighs were meant for an hour like this 

When joy is keen as a thrust of pain. 
Do you wonder the poet's heart should miss 
This touch of rapture in Nature's kiss 
And dream of Asolo ever again ? 

" Part of it yesterday," we moan ? 

Nay, he is part of it now, no fear. 
What most we love we are that alone. 
His body lies under the Minster stone, 

But the love of the warm heart hngers here. 

"La Mura," Asolo, June 3, 1892. 



AT SEA 71 



AT SEA 

Some things are undivined except by love — 
Vague to the mind, but real to the heart, 
As is the point of yon horizon line 
Nearest the dear one on a foreign shore. 



72 MOODS OF THE SOUL 

MOODS OF THE SOUL 
I. — In Time of Victory 

As soldiers after fight confess 

The fear their valor would not own 

When, ere the battle's thunder stress, 
The silence made its mightier moan: 

Though now the victory be mine, 
'T is of the conflict I must speak, 

Still wondering hov/ the Hand Divine 
Confounds the mighty with the weak. 

To-morrow I may flaunt the foe — 
Not now; for in the echoing beat 

Of fleeing heart-throbs well I know 
The bitterness of near defeat. 

O friends! who see but steadfast deeds. 
Have grace of pity with your praise. 

Crown if you must, but crown with weeds, 
The conquered more deserve your bays. 



\ 



MOODS OF THE SOUL 73 

No, praise the dead! — the ancestral roll 
That down their line new courage send, 

For moments when against the soul 
All hell and half of heaven contend. 



II. — In Time of Defeat 

Yes, here is undisguised defeat — 
You say, " No further fight to lose." 

With colors in the dust, 't is meet 

That tears should flow and looks accuse. 

I echo every word of ruth 

Or blame : yet have I lost the right 
To praise with you the unfaltering Truth, 

Whose power — save in me — has might? 

Another day, another man: 

I am not now what I have been; 

Each grain that through the hour-glass ran 
Rescued the sinner from his sin. 



74 MOODS OF THE SOUL 

The Future is my constant friend; 

Above all children born to her 
Alike her rich affections bend — 

She, the unchiding comforter. 

Perhaps on her unsullied scroll 

(Who knows ?) there may be writ at last 

A fairer record of the soul 

For this dark blot upon the Past. 



75 



TO LEONORA 
TO LEONORA 

(at her debut, OCTOBER l8, 1891) 

Fair sister of the Muses, 't is the hour. 

Dearest of all, when thou dost wed thy Art. 
No bride more radiant a more single heart 
Gave to her chosen — and what noble dower! 

Graces akin to forest and to flower; 
A spirit blithe as dawn; a soul astart; 
A nature rich, to keep thee what thou art — 
A star of beauty and a flame of power. 

Now, while the tranced throng turn each to each 
Sharing their joy, think'st thou on those young years 
When many a day and night was unbeguiled 

Save by this love that Hghtened toil and tears? 
Thy music melts upon the verge of speech ; 
Fame greets the artist — I, the constant child. 



76 HERBERT MA PES 



HERBERT MAPES 

(drowned august 23, 1891) 

Last night, what kingdom on his brow ! 

What mellow music in his voice! 

What strength to make the eye rejoice! 
What life! what flush of youth! . . . and. now! 

O brow dethroned ! O muffled bell 
Of speech ! O net too loosely wove ! 
O sunken freight of hope and love ! 

Come back till we have said farewell ! 



A WISH FOR NEW FRANCE 77 



A WISH FOR NEW FRANCE 

(fragment) 

For her no backward look 
Into the bloody book 

Of kings. Thrice-rescued land ! 
Her haunted graves bespeak 
A nobler fate : to seek 
In service of the world again the world's command. 

She, in whose skies of peace 
Arise new auguries 

To strengthen, cheer, and guide — 
When nations in a horde 
Draw the unhallowed sword, 
O Memory, walk a warning specter at her side ! 



7 8 DIVIDED HONORS 



DIVIDED HONORS* 

Nature had late a strife with Art 
To prove which bears the worthier part 
In poets' fame. The words ran high 
While Justice, friend to both, stood by 
To name the victor. 

Nature rose. 
Impressive in her artless pose, 
And in a few words fitly chose 
(Confined to generahties) 
Pleaded the nature of the thing — 
That singers born to sing must sing, 
That it could not be otherwise; 
Spoke of the poet's " flight of wing," 
His " flow of song," his " zephyr sighs," 
And hid in trope and allegory 
A whole campaign of a priori. 

Then Art began to plead her cause ; 

Said Nature's windy words had flaws — 

* Written for the dinner to James Whitcomb Riley at Indiana- 
polis, October i8, 1888. 



DIVIDED HONORS 79 

That e'en the larklet soaring high 
Must surely once have lear}ied to fly 
And eke to sing. Moreover, Song 
Is something more than baby-prattle; 
Or plow-boy's carol to the cattle; 
Or love's acrostic — though it be 
Faultless (at one extremity); 
Or verse that school-girls spoil a day for, 
Found good to print, but not to pay for. 
This well she with herself debated. 
And, lacking points, elaborated. 
And, like a lawyer closely pressed. 
Naught having proved, assumed the rest. 

But Justice, knowing how to prick 

The airy globes of rhetoric, 

Said, " Friends, your theories are ample. 

Yet light upon the case we need, 

And, me Judice, she '11 succeed 

Who shall present the best example." 

A moment both were still as death. 

Then shouted " Shakespeare ! " in a breath ; 



8o DIVIDED HONORS 

And then, confounded by each other 
(While pondering moderated pother), 
Ran down the Hst of EngHsh charmers, 
As in a fugue of two performers: 
'Twas "Chaucer!" "PhiHp Sidney!" "Donne! 

"George Herbert!" " Milton!" "Tennyson!" 
And, quick as either one would name them, 
The other would be sure to claim them! — 
Till Justice — blindfold all these years 
Because she can't believe her eyes — 
Convinced that hearing, too, belies. 
Now pulled her bandage o'er her ears. 
Then Nature, in affected candor, 
Renounced all ownership in Landor, 
And said : " Let 's both make fair returns ; 
I '11 give you Keats — you give me Burns." 

" No, no," said Art, " you have a fit man, — 
Your whole contention lies in Whitman." 
Then, she not wanting from her rival 
A gift of what was hers by right. 
At once there followed a revival 
Of acrimony — till in fright 
Pale Justice, with a sly suggestion 
Of dining, moved the previous question. 



DIVIDED HONORS 8 1 

But Nature, conscious of her force, 

Had in reserve a shrewd resource, 

And, while the judgment hung uncertain. 

She quickly drew aside a curtain. 

And, full of confidence, said dryly: 

I rest my case on Whitcomb Riley! 

And further to enforce my right, 

He has consented to recite. 

That all may see by how large part 

He has possession of my heart." 



Five minutes ! and the wager 's o'er : ' 

A ballad, homely, simple, true — j 

And then, and ever after^ you ] 

See Nature as you 'd ne'er before. 

First is the kind eye's twinkling ray 

So lit with human sympathy j 

That, kindled by its flash, you say 

Humor 's the true democracy. ■ 

The next note 's deeper — there 's no guile i 

Mixed with the shrewdness of that smile 

That breaks from sadness into joy — ■ 

The man's glad memory of the boy. ; 



82 DIVIDED HONORS 

Then tears, ah ! they are Nature's rain, 
The tears of love and death and grief 
And rapture — the divine relief 
That gives us back the sun again. 



No more need Nature nurse her fears, 
For look ! e'en Art herself 's in tears. 
And in the general acclaim 
The jade has nigh forgot her name. 
Yet has she left one arrow more, 
And, proudly rising to the floor, 
Not yet," she says, " for what you take 
For Nature's work is mine, who make 
Jewels of stones that else would lie 
Unnoticed 'neath the searching sky. 
Receive the secret — mine your tears: 
He 's been viy pupil fifteen years I " 

Then Justice said : " Since there 's no winner, 
'T is fair the two should pay a dinner; 
Nature shall furnish. Art prepare it. 
And Riley, and his friends, shall share it." 



A TRACER FOR J**'- ^ ******** 3^ 

A TRACER FOR J"^** 3******** 



Dear English Cousins : We have lost 

And crave your help to find him 

A farmer-poet, ocean-tossed, 
With no address behind him. 

Yes, though of song he write no stave, 

We yet will call him poet: 
His lines, as wave with following wave. 

Make rhythm and never know it. 

His pages gro.w rare fruits of thought, 

Rare fruits of toil his furrows; 
His name ? Why hide it when you 've caught 

The rhyme I seek? — John Burroughs. 

I doubt if in the London round 

His eager feet will loiter, 
While hedge and copse of Kentish ground 

Are left to reconnoiter. 



84 A TRACER FOR J*""' ^ ******** 

There he '11 compare, in lulls of rain, 

Your thrushes with our cat-bird, 
And quiz the lads in every lane 

For news of this or that bird. 

Him leaners over Stratford gates 

Shall mark, by Avon strolling. 
A poacher? Ay, but on estates 

Not near their vision rolHng. 

When Shakespeare tribute he has brought 

Across the loyal ocean, 
He '11 seek some haunt that Wordsworth sought 

To pay his next devotion. 

His " next " — ah ! rather say his Jirst, 
Since friend is more than sovereign; 

Of poets be the truth rehearsed : 
To reign is not to govern. 

To him the moor shall not be lone, 

Nor any footstep idle 
Where Nature hoards each lingering tone 

Of the human voice of Rydal. 



A TRACER FOR J*** b*****^** 85 

By poets led, he will not grope, 
But be, from Kent to Cumberland, 

At home as on his Hudson slope 
Or Rip Van Winkle's slumberland. 



II 

How shall you know him? — by what word, 
What shibboleth, what mole-ridge? — 

Him who will find an English bird 
Just by a line of Coleridge ? 

Of outward mark the quickest test 

Is that he wears the shading 
That sober Autumn loves the best — 

Soft gray through iron fading. 

Tinged, too, are beard and hair; and keen 

His eye, but warm and witty; 
A rustic strength is in his mien. 

Made mild by love and pity. 



86 A TRACER FOR J*** ^ ******** 

A man of grave, of jolly moods, 

That with the world has kept tune — 

You 'd call him Druid in the woods, 
And in the billows Neptune. 

Another sign that will not fail: 
Where'er he chance to tarry, — 

In copse, or glen, or velvet vale. 
Or where the streamlets marry. 

Or on the peaks whose shadows spread 
O'er Grasmere's level reaches, — 

You '11 note shy shakings of his head 
Before his Saxon speeches. 



Ill 



Ah me ! by how poor facts and few 

A stranger may detect us, 
While friends may never find the clew, 

Though keenly they inspect us. 



A TRACER FOR J^** ^******** 87 

Of things that make the man — alack! 

I 've hardly even hinted; 
We speak of them — behind his back, 

But here? — this might be printed. 

Still ... he 'd not know the portrait his — 

His modesty so bhnds him — 
But no ! ... to learn what Burroughs is 

Shall be his fee who finds him. 



LIBRARY 

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015 


OF CONGRESS ' 

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973 371 3 fP 




